


All At Once Bright And Placid

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John comes back to Baker St, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lets himself in; he still has keys. I know it’s him before he opens the door. When he walks in, I glance and smile at him before looking back at my laptop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All At Once Bright And Placid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikoserena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikoserena/gifts).



He lets himself in; he still has keys. I know it’s him before he opens the door. When he walks in, I glance and smile at him before looking back at my laptop. (Actually mine, now - his moved out with him.)

A bag stuffed full - clothes, no doubt - hangs from his arm and he slings it over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom.

“You haven’t eaten, have you? I’ll call in a pizza,” he calls out, and anyone else would believe the casualness with which he speaks. I do not reply. He will be staying the night, at least, and the least I can do is avoid making him any more uncomfortable. It’s not long before he appears again, his shoes hanging from his hand and in jeans more worn and comfortable than the work trousers he was wearing a moment ago. His chair is waiting for him - I hate to see it empty, but more than that, I hate for him to not feel welcomed when he visits - and he sinks into it with a little sigh.

“Pizza,” I say, after a full minute of silence.

“Mm.”

“I’ll order it,” I declare, and do so. He’s looking at me, and the fondness is there, but hidden behind a very blank mask.

“You’re not going to ask, are you?”

I do not bother replying, choosing instead to check his blog, his facebook; _her_ facebook, her twitter. There is nothing pertinent to read.

“Right.”

We sit in silence until dinner arrives, and he trots down to collect and pay for it. He passes mine to me and we eat straight from the boxes like we are half our age.

“I don’t think she's mine,” he says suddenly. I had not expected him to say that, and from the look on his face, neither had he.

“Ah,” I reply, careful. He slumps in his chair, stretching his legs. I find myself shifting my bare feet to rest against his.

“You think that too,” he accuses, but he’s sad, not angry. I don’t think he actually wants a reply, and we continue eating. I have seen him holding their daughter, of course: a curious look comes into his eyes, and the first time I saw it I was staggered again by his beauty. He takes the boxes when we are done, puts the two slices left of his pizza in with the five left of mine, and finds a safe shelf for it in the fridge.

I stand up when he returns and he walks, slowly but unflinchingly, into a tight embrace. I don’t know the particulars of what drove him here tonight, and I’m unsure what to do. My lips press against his hair, and he tips his head up to press his against my throat in reply. There is no way he is unaware of my racing pulse. He is smiling when he pulls away.

“I’m going to have a hot shower,” he tells me, and his eyes are all at once bright and placid. “Then I’m going to have to borrow your bed. There’s no duvet for mine upstairs, and I’m too old for the couch.”

Eventually, I nod. I watch him disappear into the bathroom before I sit and retrieve my laptop. I navigate aimlessly around news sites, and our blogs and email accounts. Ten minutes later he leans into view, hair damp and skin pink.

“Goodnight,” he says, and looks at me. There is something in his gaze, but I cannot parse it.

“Goodnight,” I echo. He shuts himself in my bedroom.

There are experiments that need tending, but I find it difficult to focus. I potter. Time passes - I can’t tell how long - before I hear the _snickscrape_ of the bedroom door.

“Come to bed.”

His voice is a fragile thing and it curls around me. How can I do anything but set down my tweezers and follow him? He relieves me of my dressing gown and drops it to the floor. In thin cotton we lay beside each other. I clutch the blanket, but he is not unsure. When he rolls to face me and stretches his neck to kiss the corner of my mouth, my lips twitch. The hand resting on my upper arm is possessive but not restrictive, and John sleeps.


End file.
